


an agreement

by pelinal



Category: Castlevania (Cartoon)
Genre: Hand Jobs, M/M, Weepy Sex, it's not like dub-con but poor decisions have perhaps been made, jesus man what's there to say about this one
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-09
Updated: 2019-02-09
Packaged: 2019-10-24 20:37:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,041
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17711162
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pelinal/pseuds/pelinal
Summary: Back to Gresit. . .would be the easiest thing. The responsible thing. Help rebuild. Stay to see whether the next Bishop will be a complete prick, too. But laying bricks and sewing up gashed curtains isn't what you want. At least, not in Gresit.You could take up at one of the little farms outside the city. It'd be honest work and fresh food. It feels wrong. It feels so dull you want to pluck the thought from your head like a blighted root and toss it out.Then what? you think. Don't be so bloody prissy if you haven't a better idea. But do you? Maybe you do. You might.You toss a glance Alucard's way.





	an agreement

**Author's Note:**

> How do i justify myself before god? the short version is i saw the crying scene and went "HOT"

You grind a dry bit of grass into the dirt with your heel, trying hard to make up your mind. Trevor is struggling to pile bags of flour and rice into the wagon, and he shoots you a dirty look for not helping, but you ignore him completely.

Back to Gresit. . .would be the easiest thing. The responsible thing. Help rebuild. Stay to see whether the next Bishop will be a complete prick, too. But laying bricks and sewing up gashed curtains isn't what you want. At least, not in Gresit.

You could take up at one of the little farms outside the city. It'd be honest work and fresh food. It feels wrong. It feels so dull you want to pluck the thought from your head like a blighted root and toss it out.

Then what? you think. Don't be so bloody prissy if you haven't a better idea. But do you? Maybe you do. You might.

You toss a glance Alucard's way. He's watching Trevor and Sypha load the wagon, biting his lip the tiniest bit. He looks over at you—sometimes his gleaming, pale-gold eyes still startle you—and flashes a quick, insincere smile. If that's not a good sign, at least it isn't a bad one. You sidle over so that the two of you are standing side by side.

He says nothing, but you feel his gaze on you, and you can't help grinning. When your eyes meet again, you burst out laughing, and he laughs too—sincerely, if a little confused. _"What?"_ he demands.

"Nothing. Stupid idea. Silly thought I had."

"Out with it!"

"Ah," you pretend like you're just having this thought for the first time, rubbing nonchalantly at an old, raised scar on the back of your hand, "is it all right by you if I hang about for a bit?"

His eyes widen for a split second, and then he sort of squints at you suspiciously. "Hang—here, you mean? With—?"

"Yeees? If that's all right with your lordship?" You feel like an arsehole as soon as you've said it. "Oh, I bet that castle's got a huge kitchen. Or—no—vampires don't. . .never mind the kitchen, then."

"We do—" Alucard clears his throat and starts again. "The castle's got a lovely kitchen, actually. My father may not have needed it, but. . ." And there you've dredged up memories of both his dead parents in one go. Excellent work.

"But with respect to my original ques—"

"Yes, you may stay. For as long as you like," he adds, almost shyly. You're surprised—you'd expected him to want you out of his hair as soon as possible. His beautiful, spun-gold hair. . .completely beside the point. That's completely beside the point.

You let Trevor and Sypha know about your decision. Trevor makes a 'really?' face, glancing between you and Alucard. When you assure him that yes, you're certain, he shrugs and shoots you a little two-fingered salute. Sypha isn't content with that, of course. She envelops you in a vicelike grip—you've learned she's deceptively strong beneath all the magicky stuff. She hugs Alucard, too, lingering for longer, and takes his hand and doesn't seem to want to let go. But eventually she and Trevor are in the wagon, pulling away onto the main road east. At least, you think it's east.

"So," you start to say, scraping your discarded bow off the ground—you step on something as you stoop. One of the fine, polished(, expensive) arrows you'd bought during a rest stop a few days ago. "Oh, shit," you sigh. Clumsy bastard.

"I don't anticipate we'll need to do any more fighting today," says Alucard lightly.

"Yeah, but _look,_ " you say, holding up the two sad halves. "These were two silvers a piece."

"You might take another look around the Belmont Hold."

"You couldn't pay me," you snort, although the words made a cold lash of terror coil in your chest. "I'm not the sort for magicky things and enchantments and keeping the skulls of little children in display cases."

"Noticed those, too, did you?" Alucard starts to walk back toward the castle, and you follow at his heels.

"Hard not to."

"Still. There's a lot of good to be had out of magic."

"Not for me." The closest thing you've ever gotten to magic was using  a consecrated bow, and that was already weird. You swear the thing thrummed in your grip, with some sort of. . .unknowable power. Creepy. "I mean, I respect it and everything, but. You know."

"You'll stick with that ratty old bow." Alucard's lip quirks.

"Absolutely I will. Or my ratty old quarterstaff."

"How very plebeian."

"Ple-what?"

"It was the word the Romans used for the peasants. The unenlightened masses."

"Unenlightened, am I?" you say, pretending to be offended. "Not all of us were raised by scientists."

And there you've fucking done it again. Alucard's brow twitches, like the ghost of a frown, and then he shoots you another superficial smile. "Shall we go inside?"

You nod quickly, before you can put your foot in your mouth again. Alucard decides not to teleport away, despite your idiocy, but you still struggle a bit to keep up with his supernaturally brisk walking speed. "You know I couldn't read until I was seventeen?" you prattle. "Let alone read Latin. Still can't read Latin. But one time I was feeling bold and I filched a hymnal from the chapel."

"Isn't that a capital offense?"

"Yes! The priest who caught me said he'd ought to take my writing hand, but he'd look the other way this once if I turned over the book right away." You chuckle to yourself. "Now that was the last thing I wanted to do, but I gave it to him. But I'd torn out a page. I kept that with me."

"And that's how you learnt."

"Yep. I took the page home and spread it out on the table and me and my mother would spend long hours trying to puzzle it out together. Although I'm still no Sypha." Definitely not.

"I gathered as much when we were in the Belmonts' library."

"Yeah," you say, still a little wounded by the memory. "Yeah."

A silence. Alucard crosses his arms, uncrosses them, brushes his hair over one shoulder—finally he says, "You've never mentioned your mother."

"I wasn't trying to guard her existence. Just didn't come up, I s'pose."

"Will you tell me now?"

"What's to tell? Great big woman, hands like spades, always smells of rosemary. . .she was over the moon when I brought home that hymnal page, she said: 'I asked the priest once when I was a girl, I wanted to learn to read, and he beat me silly for even asking'. And she got this gleam in her eye. 'They don't want us to learn', she said, 'and that's exactly why we've got to take this chance'. So we did, as best we could, which wasn't all that good." You dig your thumbnail into your palm. You miss her, but that's the last thing you want to say out loud.

Alucard titters. A silvery sound, like a bell. "She sounds like your spitting image."

"Oh, she'd love that to bits." Your mother, for as long as you can remember, has always described herself as 'plug-ugly', and you as 'the loveliest boy in Wallachia'. Both, you know by now, are blatant untruths. You clear your throat. "Honestly, I think I'm through talking about family for the day."

"Mm."

The castle is before you now, looming, the broad staircase curling into a grand, empty main hall. You tread lightly—of course there's no one to scold you for being loud, but the building itself sort of strikes fear into you.

"Well. This is home," says Alucard, cautiously, trying out the thought to see how he likes it.

"Echo," you say. _Echo_ , says the hall. "God's blood! That's excellent! Do you ever sing in here?"

"No, but. . .feel free, I suppose?"

He's not really inviting you, but you do it anyway, a few lines of _Ave Maria_ , because it feels wrong to belt out a tavern song in here. That's another thing you have in common with your mother: neither of you can carry a tune, but you can be proper loud when you want to.

"I can tell you're not much for Latin," says Alucard, covering his mouth with a hand.

"Yeah?" you challenge, feeling your temper flare. "Here's one I do know. _Cine vine-n fuga mare? Bădiţa pe roib călare, măi, dorule, măi!"_

Alucard says nothing—just watches you with those glinting golden eyes.

 _"Şi din mână semne face,"_ you go on, clapping your own little accompaniment, _"că vine la noi încoace, măi, dorule, măi!"_ But this is wrong. The still, solemn air of the castle starts to weigh on you, and you trail off, feeling thoroughly stupid. "Sorry."

"No, that's all right," says Alucard, absently. He trails his hand along the dark, waxy banister, gaze fixed on something you can't see. ". . .Will you walk with me?"

"'Course."

And he heads right, down a long marble corridor. The late afternoon light filtering through the high windows gives the place a golden cast. Your footsteps echo much too loudly, but short of stripping off your shoes and shuffling across the floor in socks, there's not a lot you can do.

Alucard pauses outside a small room—or, small by the castle's standards. It's still about half the size of your entire house. But it's sparse. Chair, dresser, and a very large painting of a striking blonde woman with a vaguely familiar face. You know who it is, obviously, and you shuffle your feet like an awkward kid.

"I think I'm going to take my old name again," Alucard says. Not to you. He's facing the portrait. But you understand, sort of. No need to oppose Dracula when there is no Dracula.

"Adrian," you say. To yourself, mostly, but the place is so damnably quiet and he's got that vampire's hearing.

"Flattering that you remembered it." Alucard—Adrian—turns to face you, his golden eyes shimmering. You reach out a hand, without a clue what you'll do. It doesn't matter in the end. He rushes into your arms, shaking like a leaf. Something tugs you across your chest and you realise your bow is still slung over your shoulder.

"Hang on," you say, and you gently put one hand in the small of his back and worm the bow off you with the other, half-tossing it into an empty corner. "Hey," you say, lofting his chin a bit with a crooked finger, and your train of thought explodes when he looks you in the eye. A rare flush of color has risen to his face; his lips are trembling. "Hey," you say again, at a low whisper. You're hardly going to ask if he's all right. Of bloody course he isn't. "I'm here, Adrian."

You don't expect it when he seizes upon you with a kiss. His silver scabbard clangs as you both tumble to the ground from the force of it.

"Whoa," you say, taking him by the shoulders even as he straddles you with that strange look in his eyes. "I. . .whoa." You turn your face to the side and blow out a long breath, feeling your cheeks heat up. "Adrian. I. . .you've had possibly the worst day in history, and—"

"Bollocks," he snaps, cutting you off, and his voice starts to waver. "Just tell me 'no'."

"Wh—" You grin up at him, incredulous. "Is that what you think? That I don't want you? I—"

"We agreed the last time that we'd pick up if and when we survived all this." He shifts against you, and your cock jolts. "Here we are."

"You're not in your right mind." You tuck a dangling strand of hair behind his ear. It falls right back down again and brushes against your nose.

"I have never been more in my right mind."

"Not convinced."

He makes a frustrated noise and, without breaking eye contact, moves his hand to your jaw, lower, smooths out your rumpled collar, lower, your breath catches as the pad of his tapered finger traces over your nipple, and lower still until the heel of his hand is against your growing hard-on. "Are you going to make me spell it out?"

"I don't, uh." You don't feel capable of forming words. With a concerted effort, you manage: "You'd ought to give this a good night's. . .sleep. . ."

"Please," he says, and his voice breaks as he brings his hand back up to your jawline, and his shallow breaths are halfway to sobs, "please, please, touch me."

What can you do? You pull him into a kiss, you try to keep it chaste, keep it sweet, give him all the room in the world to pull away, but he doubles down, prying your lips farther apart, pushing his tongue into your mouth. His fangs, you know from experience, are short and blunt enough to manoeuver around if you're careful. Your faces touch here and there, and you feel his soft, cool cheek damp with tears. His hands tremble badly as he winds them into your hair, and you do the same for him, enjoying the feeling of his satiny hair swirling around your fingers. You've missed this—you have, it makes your heart soar to be this close to him again, even if the circumstances are sort of fucked up.

He pulls away, there's a wet sound as your mouth and his part ways, and you reach out your hand again, slowly, and with a flick of your wrist, you pop the first button on his blouse. Adrian laughs, properly laughs through his weeping. "Bastard."

"Oh, it can't have gone far. I'll pop it back on there for you."

"Later," he gasps, starting to undo the rest himself, his fingers flying, as if he can't get them all fast enough. Bit by bit, the wide, bright scar emblazoned across his torso comes into view. Every time you see it your heart sinks. Adrian, in his fervor, seems not to notice your staring, or else he's trying to ignore it.

"Relax," you say, taking hold of his hips. "We have time."

He ignores you, falling back into the kiss with renewed desperation, only interrupting it for a split second to tell you to sit up—which you do, lumpishly, scrabbling for purchase on the burnished marble floor. You hear the jingle of a belt buckle as Adrian fumbles with his trousers. Teasing at his lower lip with your teeth, you slide your thumb beneath his waistband—he makes a little gasping noise and redoubles his efforts.

"Oh, Adrian," you say languidly, releasing his lip, "breathe, would you." You undo the buckle with a flourish and get the buttons in his fly, one, two, three, "accidentally" brushing against him with your fingers every chance you get.

He shimmies out of the trousers with the same dancerish grace he does everything else, the quicker to press his body against yours again. _You_ always look like a right twat trying to escape your pants. Speaking of which. Yours are staying on today. You sit fully upright, kneeling next to him, and trail a finger down the length of his cock—lovely thing, shapely and pale. You've missed that too. In fact, you lean in and press a little kiss to his shaft. Adrian laughs and swats your shoulder, and you gift him a single hard, reconciliatory suck (which takes some agility)—he shivers and rolls up the sleeves of his open blouse, so they're out of the way. You straighten up again, grinning, and plant slow, messy kisses down the side of his neck, fisting your hand around his cock as you do. Slow, slow strokes. The spit helps.

"For the love of God," he pants, flinging an arm around your neck to pull you closer. "Get on with i—ah! Hah—Christ!" You speed up on your own terms, thoroughly enjoying the mounting rhythm of those little cries of "ah, ah" in your ear. Adrian clutches at the back of your shirt with vicelike hands. You kiss your way back up to his jaw, to those regal cheekbones, and the corner of his mouth, and your mouths find one another again, lips mashing together harder than ever as he fucks up into your hand, inclining his hips to meet you, and he sobs when he comes, pulling you as close as he possibly can as you coax the last waves of pleasure from him, he whispers your name as you angle your head to the side, burying your face in the crook of his shoulder. You put your hand in the small of his back again, it seems to belong there.

"God," says Adrian, running his fingers through your hair, fixing it this time. "Thank you." His lips start to quiver again.

"Hey," you say, for the third time today. Tenderly you touch his cheek. That's an odd word to think to use, tender, but it's the right one.

Adrian falls into you, howling into the fabric of your shirt.

"I'm here." What else is there? "I'm here, Adrian." As he lies weeping against you, you let your gaze wander around the room, and the mess you've made of it. Your bow in the corner, the silver trails of come spattered across the floor just to your side. Adrian's button! You spot it under the dresser, a tiny pearl-like thing in the dark.

"Thank you," says Adrian again, in a small but stable voice. He's a beautiful mess, flushed redder than you've ever seen him, lips pink and full, his bloodshot eyes spear you with their strange clarity.

"You keep saying that. Is there a bed anywhere nearby? I'm knackered."

"Two rooms over."

"Excellent," you say, scooping him into your arms. To your profound surprise, he doesn't stop you. He doesn't even make a snarky comment, just grabs the trousers off the floor and drapes them over your shoulder.

"Now I'm the pack mule," you grumble, but you don't really mind, especially not when he gives you that easy, punch-drunk smile.

 


End file.
